


Grasping at Straws (and the waistband of his pants)

by kuro49



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, neal is a darling, peter is not exactly dense, post Cape Verde, warning for softcore use of handcuffs and blindfolds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Neal thinks he’s trying too hard, Peter just doesn’t think about it at all. When really, it’s a little bit of both.</p><p>Or Neal doesn’t know how to seduce the one he wants, and Peter is Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grasping at Straws (and the waistband of his pants)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for most of s04, post Cape Verde and pre-OT3 if you want to think that far ahead.

Peter doesn’t think about it but he knows he is a man of many fears.

From El and Satchmo to Diana and Jones, even Hughes at some point in time. But this fear he has now, and by now he means the two years and some weeks that a con artist has been placed under his surveillance, it is a fear that Neal dominates with nothing but bright sky-eyes and a taunting smile beckoning him to come closer.

 

Cape Verde only proves him right, even when the shake of his head has already reassured what he has been thinking about all along.

Because you don’t run halfway around the world for a criminal you’ve put in jail (twice). You run halfway around the world for someone you—He stops himself because he doesn’t know what Neal expects from him, but sometimes, it is close to pleading when he is looking up at him like that.

(Like there is no one else he’ll rather see.)

Peter pretends he can’t understand even when he pulls him into his arms. Presses their bodies together from chest to thighs and fakes that this is all strictly platonic.

Because Peter fears, one day (a day just like today where he finds him on an island he has no jurisdiction over or, and he doesn’t know this yet, four years after when Neal can walk a free man), he will pull up Neal’s live tracking data and that green dot blinking as he moves will disappear, once and for all.

He remembers, after all, that conversation they once had.

000

“Smoke and mirrors.”

Neal tells him, smile unfazed like he is guessing what El has made him for lunch today when Peter raises a brow. Neal lifts his hands from the table, like he’s showing off that he’s got nothing to hide. “You direct them to one, give them a pretty face to focus on, and the rest goes free.”

Peter narrows his eyes, unconvinced. “And what about that one, you just leave a man behind?”

Neal shakes his head, smiles a complicated smile, and replies. “Smoke and mirrors, Peter. That man doesn’t exist.”

“…A fake trail.”

“And a very cold one at that.”

He echoes back at him.

000

Peter tries to convince himself that he doesn’t mean it.

That this is just a combination of lousy coincidences and Neal’s natural tendencies.

And hell can freeze over before he can convince himself into full oblivion.

Because Neal Caffrey is sucking the tips of his fingers into his mouth, tasting the salt from the sandwich on his skin and Peter can almost imagine the scent of paint that has long since seeped beneath the flesh, and still, it is near obscene when he pulls them out, a wet pop as he pulls his lips into a near feral grin.

“Manhattan’s best sandwich, right?”

Like he knows exactly what he can do to Peter, even when he thinks he is never going to be good enough.

There’s something sad to that but Peter can’t afford the sympathy.

Neal crumples the brown paper bag in one hand and runs a thumb across his bottom lip, catching the glisten of spit from the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah… good sandwich.” Peter murmurs between bites of the bread, eyes lowering to the rough wood of the picnic table outside of Evidence.

He doesn’t let it get to him.

000

They are in the conference room, boxes of their latest case opened spread. And Peter misses this, paperwork that doesn’t make him cringe unlike the thousands of counterfeit eyeballs and prosthetic arms back at Evidence.

“You going home?”

Neal’s question isn’t enough to make him jump but it does bring him to glance up, momentarily distracted. “You need a lift back to June’s?”

“No, I owe Moz an oyster dinner.” He is rolling down his sleeves and buttoning the cuffs with a practiced ease. Peter watches, suspicion rising as soon as Mozzie’s name is brought up because Neal is trouble on his own, add a friend and one can only imagine what they are capable of. Peter has enough paperwork with keeping one felon out of jail. “Just dinner?”

“You jealous?” Neal doesn’t stifle his small teasing laugh and neither does Peter let him run with that. “ _Neal_.”

“Nothing _but_ dinner, I promise I won’t even give him my usual goodnight kiss on the cheek.” He winks as he slips on his jacket.

And Peter realizes, he misses this too. This easy banter that he hasn’t allowed himself to have as he rolls his eyes at Neal’s effortless romance.

“I don’t want a missing painting by tomorrow morning.”

“Oh please, Peter, it’s only 7. If there’s a painting I want, you’ll hear about it before you get back to El tonight.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Neal.” He warns him but there is not a threat in his voice and his hand is already going off on it’s own, waving away at the con man standing by the door. Neal puts on his hat, slightly skewed to the side and waves back. “Night, Peter.”

Peter watches his retreating back, and this won’t ever be the last time, not with Neal by his side. And it’s just that, Nick Halden, Benjamin Cooper, Chris Gates, James Maine, none of them are real.

And neither is Neal Caffrey.

000

He has a dream that night.

 

Neal has a cigarette dangling between his fingers, a bright glow in the dim room. But Neal doesn’t smoke, Peter knows this. Except Neal is leaning forward, eyes half lidded as he sucks at the end, breathing the nicotine in with something close to amusement lighting up the blues.

Peter looks at him, sees the exposed collarbones jutting out beneath the near-translucent skin and the pale thighs stretching out at him before he realizes Neal is wearing nothing but a dress shirt.

He thinks that shirt looks familiar (it looks like one of his) but Neal is blowing smoke, in front of the mirror, out at him.

Peter should really be asking whether Neal is trying to give him a message, slam a hint up against him, because.

 _Smoke and mirrors_ , Peter remembers just as hard as Neal is trying to point him in the other direction.

“Neal,” he breathes out, “what _are_ you trying to do?”

“Peter,” and Neal is smiling, a sad little thing that shouldn’t be on that face, “you’re a smart man, figure it out.”

 

He wakes up, painfully hard.

000

Peter doesn’t do anything about it because Peter Burke is a rational man. He doesn’t think about it at all and manages to lose it in the amount of catch up he has to do to make up for the time he’s been tossed to Evidence.

He doesn’t let it get to him.

So when Neal invites him up to his apartment, he thinks nothing of it. Not even when Neal encourages him into drinking all six cans of beer when Neal himself has only taken a sip of his own glass of wine.

 

Peter doesn’t think himself a naïve man.

Not even when Neal cuffs his wrists together behind his back as he is sitting on one of his chairs and blindfolds him with a tie from behind.

It is only when Neal climbs into his lap that he suck in a breath, alcoholic haze suddenly not enough to keep his mind from coming into a sharp focus. He opens his mouth, loud protest on his tongue but Neal speaks first, voice too stern. Almost like he is challenging himself.

“I’m not trying to seduce you.”

“…Then what exactly are you doing, Neal?”

He asks as his eyesight is encased by darkness, voice strained as Neal shifts in his lap.

“I—” Neal catches himself as his hands fall from Peter’s shoulders but it is like he can feel Peter’s stare through the blindfold. He doesn’t try to con his way out of this one but maybe the truth is the best con out of all.

Peter feels Neal’s shallow breathing on his face, knows he’s too close, and he can do a lot of things, he’s a FBI agent. But he is still as he waits.

“…I’m trying to make you fall in love with me.”

“…You,” he doesn’t hide the defeat from his voice, not even when he swallows the lump in his throat to try again, “you can’t.”

 

Instead, Neal kisses him.

 

(He wants to tell him El is out of town, but he probably knows that already.

He wants to tell him that anyone can see, but neither cared about that at this point.

He wants to tell him that this is wrong, but really, they both know it doesn’t matter.)

Peter wants to tell him he is surprised too because he has never imagine Neal to kiss so carefully. He expects tongue and teeth, not this almost innocent, chaste touch of lips to lips.

 

Neal pulls back and Peter can feel him flinch against him when he says.

“Uncuff me.”

Voice tones too low, posture too rigid.

“Peter, I’m sor—”

He cuts him off as he jerks forward, mouth too eager to not want this, blind and bounded as he search for him in the dark. Peter’s lips bump against the ridge of Neal’s cheekbone, and he may be arching against the seat but he isn’t willing to pull himself back.

“I want to kiss you properly, Neal.”

XXX Kuro

 


End file.
